Crown's Law

by Wolf Wootan

Sam saw her face and said, “This isn’t the worst part of town. But . . . it doesn’t hurt to be packin’. Are you?”

  She nodded, unbuttoned her jacket, and showed him the Smith & Wesson 9mm semiautomatic under her left arm. He took the chance to admire her breasts.

  “Nice,” he grinned. “But you’ll be safe as long as you’re with me. Cops don’t normally go in here.”

  She grabbed his left arm and felt the hard muscle—and the gun on his left hip when she let her hand slide down his arm.

  “So . . . the big strong man is gonna protect the poor, weak female?” she cooed.

  “Not exactly. I meant this is my regular watering hole. They know me here,” replied Sam as he put his right hand over hers.

  She glanced at him and removed her hand from his arm. He shrugged and opened the door for her. As Trout stepped into the dim interior, her senses were bombarded by loud, hot metal rock music spewing out of a Juke Box, and the heavy smell of stale cigarette smoke and spilt beer. She stood still for a moment while her eyes became accustomed to the contrast in light from the sunny outside to the dimmer inside. She felt vulnerable. She put her hand on the butt of her gun.

  She whispered, “I thought smoking was illegal in bars and restaurants out here.”

  “It is. But there’s no cop I know who wants to come in here and enforce that law,” Sam laughed.

  Trout could see shapes finally. There were four bikers along with their “old ladies” playing pool in the back, where there were three pool tables. Eight men and three women sat at the long bar, nursing their beers and watching a television mounted behind the bar. Several booths were filled. Sam led Trout to the bar and they each took a stool.

  Trout snorted, “You actually spend time here? On purpose?”

  “Only when I’m working in this area. There’s slim pickings around here. Besides, Sparky is an old ’Nam buddy of mine. Hey! Sparky! You’ve got customers!”

  Trout peered at him for a beat, then said, “You were in ’Nam? You don’t look old enough.”

  He glanced at her and grinned. “I’ll take that as a compliment. I can feel your resistance weakening already!”

  She couldn’t help but smile.

  Sparky appeared before them and growled, “Well! Crown! I thought you’d be halfway to the beach by now!”

  “That was my plan, but before I got out of the office God sent me an angel and I fell in love!” emoted Sam.

  “Don’t fall for his blarney, miss,” laughed Sparky.

  “Is he always like this?” she laughed.

  “Only with the bonnie lasses.”

  “Knock off the phony dialect, Sparky. You’ve never even seen Ireland. Meet my true love, FBI Special Agent Bo Trout,” interjected Sam. “Bo, this is the owner of this dump, Sparky O’Hara. Rumor has it that he calls his rundown house Tara, and has a cat named Scarlett.”

  Sparky looked at Bo carefully, wondering why Sam was with an FBI agent—a very pretty one at that. Sam often hung out with cops, but never a fibbie before. At least, not in here.

  Sam continued, “She’s looking for Mickey.”

  Sparky growled, “Another one? I already told the cops all I know. I have nothing new to add.”

  He swiped the bar with a towel, then added, “You two want something to drink, or are you just gonna take up space?”

  Sam answered, “First, turn down that fuc . . . damned Juke Box or I’ll shoot it again!”

  Sparky trod over to a control panel behind the bar and turned a knob. The loud music was reduced by several decibels.

  Bo said, “That’s better! You didn’t really shoot a Juke Box, did you?”

  Sparky grumbled, “Damn right he did! Cost me a bundle to replace it! I put it on his tab, but he never pays that either. Now, how about ordering something?”

  Bo said, “Well, I’m officially still on duty, and armed, so I can’t drink booze right now. How about a club soda with some lime?”

  “I’ll have a glass of tap beer,” replied Sam. “Whatever you’re pushing today. I’ll save my serious drinking for when I get to the beach.”

  He turned to Bo and added, “It must be quittin’ time wherever you came from. Loosen up and have a drink.”

  She looked at her watch and shrugged. “I guess you’re right. Make it a Chardonnay.”

  Sparky moved away to fill their orders.

  Bo said, “Can I really smoke in here? It wouldn’t be very smart of me to run afoul of the local gendarmes!”

  “Sure. Light up. SWAT is too busy to swarm this place,” laughed Sam.

  She rustled around in her shoulder bag and came out with a long, filtered cigarette. Sam grabbed a book of matches off the bar and lit it for her. She blew smoke into the cloud collecting on the ceiling and remarked, “Ah, that’s better! No smoking on cross-country flights is a bitch!”

  Bo then turned her head toward Sam and asked, “Why, exactly, are we here?”

  “I want to try and convince you to give up this search for Mickey Malone. You’re wasting your valuable time, and can do a lot of harm. Just talk to Carl Fenster. You guys have had him stashed here for ten years. He knows the area well.”

  Sparky appeared and put their drinks in front of them.

  Sam asked him, “When was the last time you saw Mickey?”

  “Don’t remember. I certainly haven’t seen him since that fuckin’ cop was here.”

  “But before that?”

  “Oh, maybe a month or two. Hey! Johnson! When was Mickey here last?”

  A big man five stools away looked up, then said, “I’m not sure. I think he’s still out of town. At least, that’s what Ralph told me. Why?”

  “Never mind,” replied Sparky as he moved down the bar to service a customer.

  Sam said, “Thanks, Sparky. Give Johnson a drink on me. Put it on my tab.”

  Bo shrugged, then remarked, “What did that little charade prove?”

  “It shows the power of the Legend of Mickey Malone.”

  Bo took a sip of her wine and remarked, “Wow! Good wine for such a dump!”

  “Sparky serves good booze.”

  Sam proceeded to explain how the legend was created, and how people relied on it being true. While he was talking, in an attempt to become chummier with her, Sam put his left hand on her right knee. She casually grabbed his wrist and removed his hand. He plowed ahead with his story as if nothing had happened.

  He concluded, “. . . so now you see why you’re chasing smoke. The people here—and all around town—find comfort in knowing Mickey is around looking after things. I can prove to you that he doesn’t exist physically, but I don’t want the legend to die.”

  “Damn! Assuming you’re telling me the truth, what do I tell my bosses in Washington?” she exclaimed, turning on her stool to face him.

  Sam realized that she was really upset.

  “Well, Big Brother does screw up now and then,” laughed Sam. “But I have a possible solution. You won’t tell me anything about your case, so I’ll do some guessing. Since you are looking for Mickey, your case must involve that guy Jackson, who was shot—the guy who had Mickey’s business card. Since you seem to have been poorly briefed, maybe you don’t know that Jackson has been identified as William Winston. The cops here didn’t get far on finding his killer because you Feds swooped down and took all the evidence and the case. Now, finally, you show up. It must be your case now, right?”

  “No comment. You said you had a solution in mind?”

  “Christ, you’re a hard ass! No give and take? Yeah, I have something in mind. You hang around and actually do some detective work—some real sleuthing. Find out who really killed Winston, and why. It wasn’t over drugs. Look, why don’t you come down to my beach house with me, relax, get some California rays—enjoy the ocean. We’ll kick this thing around and you can go home with some real info instead of a handful of smog.”

  “Oh, you’re cute! Your solution is for me to spend the weekend with you?” laughed Bo. “You never give u
p, do you?”

  “No, but I’m serious! I’ve been looking into this crime on my own. I can’t let Mickey be a suspect, can I? I don’t want any more people looking for Mickey. I have to solve it! With your resources, it should be easier. And, of course, I’ll continue to charm you—but I’ll keep my hands off you till you change your mind. Where is the Bureau going to stash you? A Motel 6 in this town—and heat? My place is right on the water. You’ll have your own room—and a chaperon,” Sam said, pleading his case.

  “Chaperon?” she asked with an arched eyebrow, wondering what his scam was.

  “My 16-year-old niece, Becky. My parents are out of town again—it’s actually their house—and Becky is going to the senior prom tomorrow night. She could probably use a woman around for moral support. Neither of us has ever experienced anything like this before,” explained Sam.

  “Only 16, and she’s a senior?” inquired Bo, sensing that his scam was unraveling. “She must be very smart!”

  “You might say that. Smarter than you could ever imagine. But she’s not really a senior.”

  He went on to explain a little bit of Becky’s academic situation, in brief.

  “Wow! What a kid! You must be very proud of her!” exclaimed Bo.

  “I am. But I have zero parenting skills. I just kind of look after her and protect her. Officially, I’m her legal guardian.”

  “It sounds to me as if you have great parenting skills! I’ll tell you what. I will go with you for the weekend, as long as we get some ground rules straight,” said Bo, wondering if she was doing the right thing. She was fascinated by Becky, however, and wanted to meet her.

  Gotcha! thought an elated Sam as he licked his lips.

  Chapter 27

  Friday, June 1, 2001

  Santa Ana, CA

  They drove back to Sam’s office and he directed Bo to the building a block away where he kept his Camaro. She parked in front of the building. Sam got out and unlocked a padlock on a two-car garage, then raised the door. He motioned for her to pull in next to his red Camaro convertible. He kept his surveillance van in the adjacent garage.

  “We’ll take my car. However, I don’t want to leave your rental car in the lot at the office. It would be stripped or stolen before we got to the freeway.”

  He took her suitcase—actually her carry-on bag: she traveled light—and put it in the trunk of the Camaro. She took a cell phone out of her purse.

  “I’d better call the SAC in L.A.and tell him I’ve made my own arrangements,” announced Bo.

  She walked a few yards away and began talking earnestly while Sam backed his car out of the garage. He locked the garage. A low-slung Chevy with sub-woofers pounding cruised by. It was filled with young Latinos, and they eyed his Camaro. Sam recognized the guy in the front passenger seat, a local gang member. The guy gave him a thumbs-up, pointed at the car. Sam returned the gesture and the guy gave him a toothy grin.

  Don’t even think of it, Juanito! mused Sam. You touch my car, you join your brother in Boot Hill!

  “OK,” stated Bo as she strode back to where Sam was standing, watching the boom box turn the corner. “He wasn’t very happy, but I’m clear for the weekend.”

  “What miserable thing did he want you to do?” queried Sam as he opened the passenger door for her.

  “Spend the weekend in bed with him! It seems that men have only one thing on their minds,” she laughed.

  Ouch! At least she laughed!

  “But you chose me! I’m so flattered!” leered Sam.

  “Keep your pants zipped, Crown! Remember our agreement!”

  She settled back in the soft seat and inhaled the smell of leather as she fastened her seat belt.

  “Hmm. Yummy car!” she smiled. He smiled.

  By the time they got to the I-5 freeway, and were heading south toward Dana Point, it was 6:00 P.M. Sam wanted to open the Camaro up and let Bo feel the breeze in her hair, but the Friday traffic was inching along at 25 to 35 miles per hour. They chatted about Becky and the beach, and about Sam’s P.I. business. Bo was closed mouth about her mission, but Sam knew it had to be about Dynology. After they passed the Crown Valley Parkway exit, the traffic opened up and he sped up to 85 mph for a short stretch.

  He whipped off the freeway and turned left on Doheny Park Road, which merged into Pacific Coast Highway.

  “Don’t the cops ever catch you?” gasped Bo as soon as she could be heard over the rush of the wind and the roar of the engine.

  “They don’t bother anymore. If they see me—they know my car—they just make a note. Sometimes I get a ticket in the mail,” he chuckled.

  As the guard stepped out of the Beach Road guardhouse and waved Sam through, the guard thought, How does he do it? Must be the car!

  When Sam punched the garage door opener, the left double door rolled up and revealed a new, white VW bug parked in it.

  “Ah, good!” exclaimed Sam as he drove into the garage. “That’s Becky’s wheels. She’s home.”

  As the garage door closed behind them, he retrieved Bo’s bag and led her through the door from the garage into the kitchen.

  “Hey, Beck! I’m home!” he yelled as they entered the large living room. Bo walked over to the open sliding glass doors and watched the slow breakers washing up on the sand.

  “This is heavenly!” she exclaimed. “And that sound! So refreshing! Soothing!”

  Becky sauntered in from the deck via the side door and yelled, “Sam! Hey! You’re here!”

  They both stared at her. She was dressed in the skimpiest bikini Bo had ever seen!

  “Oops! Didn’t know you brought company, Sam!”

  She dashed out and came back in wearing a cover-up.

  “Becky! I’ve told you not to wear that suit!” chided Sam.

  “Shit, Sam! Nobody was here! I was working on my tan. You never called and said you were coming home!” snapped Becky.

  “Christ! Watch your language, Beck!”

  “Why? Nana’s not here. I need to let it all out now and then! It gets all bottled up inside! Shit! Shit! Shit!” Becky yelled. Sam knew she was pissed at him for leaving her alone for four days.

  Bo watched the exchange with a small smile on her lips, remembering her own teenaged years. Then, Becky went to Sam and hugged him, kissed his cheek while standing on tiptoes.

  “There! I feel better. When I’m left alone, I get all this pent-up crap. Next time, call and warn me. I’m sorry I embarrassed you in front of your guest,” said Becky as she approached Bo and extended her hand.

  “Hi, I’m Becky Rogers. The teenager from Hell!” Becky laughed as she shook Bo’s hand.

  “Hi, I’m Rainbow Trout. Sam calls me Bo.”

  “Rainbow Trout? For real? Cool!” exclaimed Becky as she spotted the traveling bag. “You spending the night?”

  “If you don’t think I’m intruding.”

  “Intruding? Hell no! I’ve been bouncing off the walls all week!” laughed Becky. “It’s not my say so anyway.”

  Sam interjected, “Becky, we’ll put Ms. Trout in the room across from yours. She’s spending the weekend.”

  “Not your room?”

  “Becky! Ms. Trout is an FBI agent out here from D.C. We’re working a case together. Please mind your manners!”

  “I’m sorry. I remind you, you didn’t call and explain anything! Nikki was here today to clean. She also changed the sheets in Nana’s room. Why not put her there? That room has an ocean view. Puts her further from the train.”

  “Good thinking, Beck! Why don’t you take her up and get her settled? Bo, put on a bathing suit if you brought one. We still have some sun left, and we can take a swim. Watch the sunset. And you, Beck, put on a decent suit!” said Sam.

  “Yes, sir,” she replied with a salute as she grabbed Bo’s bag and started for the staircase. “Come on, Ms. Trout. Let’s get you settled.”

  As they trudged up the stairs, Bo remarked, “Why don’t you call me Bo?”

  “I’m supposed to
respect my elders. But that’s fine with me, Bo.”

  “You call Sam by his first name,” observed Bo.

  “Well, ‘Uncle Sam’ doesn’t really work, does it?” chuckled Becky. “I would call him ‘Dad’ if he’d let me, but he’ll have none of it. Sometimes I think he is more insecure than I am!”

  They entered a large bedroom with windows along the beach side. The view was breathtaking! Bo opened the sliding glass door and the sliding screen and stepped out onto the redwood deck. There were two loungers out there—each with a round, wooden table next to it. Becky joined her.

  Becky said, “Pretty cool, eh? Everything about this place is cool!”

  “Stupendous! I take it that Sam brings women here often?” opined Bo, prying a bit.

  Becky peered at her, wondering what her interest in Sam was. “Now and then. Not often. He’s sort of a bed and breakfast kind of guy.”

  Bo got a quizzical look on her face and asked, “Bed and breakfast?”

  “You know. He takes them to bed, feeds them breakfast, and that’s usually the last you see of them,” she explained as she turned and went back inside. Bo followed her.

  Still wondering about Sam’s habits with women, Bo queried, “Doesn’t that bother you?”

  Becky stopped rattling clothes hangers and peered sharply at Bo. After a couple of beats, she replied, “Excuse me for being rude again, Ms. Trout, but you’ve only just met Sam. You have no right to start judging him based on one of my flippant remarks. Whatever life-style Sam chooses is perfectly OK with me, and really none of your business. If it weren’t for his help and compassion, I would probably be a street hooker now—or, more likely, dead. Like my sister. Are you worried about my morals being corrupted because he brings women here occasionally? Don’t be. I’m old beyond my years.”

  Bo felt her face turning hot, and felt ashamed of herself. Her casual prying had caused Becky to jump to Sam’s defense immediately. Before she could speak and apologize, Becky smiled wryly and continued.

  “If what you meant is do I approve of his choice of women, the answer is not usually. From my point of view, he could be a lot more discerning and selective. But, of course, I’m being selfish. I keep hoping he’ll find me a mother, but I think he avoids that type of women on purpose. Emotional commitment isn’t his long suit. He’s a confirmed bachelor, I guess. I should be ashamed for even thinking such things. I am so lucky just having him! I only thank God that he decided to keep me—look after me. He certainly didn’t need a teenaged daughter to complicate his life. Especially one as complicated as I am. Fortunately, I have the rest of my life to pay him back—if I can.”